


The Best Man For The Job

by Hollandoodle



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, POV, Robb is mentioned, Sansan fanfiction - Freeform, Smut, This is purely, Truck Sex, Wedding, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-10 15:50:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12915129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hollandoodle/pseuds/Hollandoodle
Summary: Sansa attends Robb's wedding solo, and meets her rescuer when she's about to be accosted by horny college football players.A connection occurs, one that is undeniably hot, and inexplicably deep.





	The Best Man For The Job

**Author's Note:**

> I'm blaming Thomas Rhett for this one. His song "Unforgettable" made me do it. 
> 
> "Then some guy tried to cut in  
> You took my hand and we pretended  
> Like I was your guy"
> 
> This one gets a little steamy ;-)

Sansa felt them on her. Eyes. Dozens of pairs of them, staring at her like she was fresh meat. Once the crowd parted and revealed her sitting by herself at the bar, it was open hunting season and she was the prey.

The predators were Robb’s college football teammates. Men who any other woman in her right mind would have relished being stalked by. 

Thirty twenty-somethings; virile, horny, and licking their chops at female flesh? 

Yes, ma’am, there would have been a banquet if Margaery and Daenerys had attended.

Lucky for Sansa--or not so lucky, as it turns out--they had both decided to spend the summer touring the country in a small RV, leaving Sansa to attend her brother’s wedding without a date.

Up until now she had managed to avoid drawing attention to herself, which wasn’t too hard given that she’d remained seated when the dance floor was full, and that her shimmering ice blue dress had been hidden behind the throngs of men gyrating amidst the select few women Robb had invited.

Didn’t he know anything about keeping a venue such as a wedding balanced?

And didn’t his now-wife Jeyne have any friends??

She was just about to order another drink, had held her hand up to get the bartender’s attention, when she found herself the subject of the perusal of five very buff, very interested-looking men about her age.

One seemed no different than the other--crew cuts, upper bodies that likely got a lot of attention in the gym while the lower body was neglected, and egos the size of Westeros. If it wouldn’t have looked rude Sansa might have rolled her eyes and turned her back.

As it was, she was Robb’s polite oldest sister, and had been instructed that, if it fell on her, she would be expected to assume some portion of the hosting duties, as their mother Catelyn would not be able to do all of it herself. And Ned, their father, likely wouldn’t be much help, concerned as he was with the Scotch he was nursing and the very fascinating, very secluded corner of the venue ballroom.

“Hello gentleman,” she simpered, not completely able to put on a smile that reached her eyes. 

They all began to speak at once, as though verbally sparring for her attentions.

“Will you dance with me?”

“Can I get you a drink?”

“You’re Robb’s sister, right?”

The remaining two also said something but Sansa’s attention was drawn away and she missed them completely when a drink was nearly shoved into her face by a man’s massive paw.

“Your drink, honey,” said a deep, rasping voice from just behind her ear. Sansa almost gasped out loud, but took what looked like whiskey on the rocks and grasped at the lifeline this stranger was offering her. She didn’t think twice when she grasped the huge thumb and drew the hand across her body, forcing whoever it was to wrap his thick arm around the front of her shoulders.

She  _ was _ lucky--he got the message, and the fingers of that hand engulfed her bare shoulder as the young men’s gazes travelled across the hairy arm wrapped around her chest and then up, up, up until they settled on what she decided must be the man’s face. 

_ He must be tall _ , she thought _ , to match this log of an arm. _ She smiled politely at the young men and took a sip of the--yep,  _ whiskey! _ \--barely managing to hold back the cough that threatened as it burned on the way down.

“Thank you gentleman, but it looks like my man just arrived.”

If they had been looking at her, she figured they may have nodded politely, perhaps wished her a good night and an enjoyable weekend.

But they didn’t, and for a moment she saw fear flash in the eyes of these strapping young men, before they all turned and scampered away with their proverbial tails between their legs.

The arm, however, did not disappear, nor did Sansa really want it to. It was thick and heavy, the hair tickling her palm now that she’d laid it over the corded muscles. And his skin was warm, casting off heat against her bare chest.

And to her surprise,  _ after _ the younger men had scurried away like little mice, the man’s thumb brushed over the sensitive skin on the front of her shoulder--once, twice, sending a thrill up her spine and making her entire body tremble and shiver with the sensation.

She felt his hot breath against the shell of her ear as he spoke, his voice like a physical caress that she felt clear down to the tips of her toes.

“Are we done, or do you have need of me?”

Sansa felt positively scandalized, not because of what he said but because of her body’s reaction to him. For starters, she really had no idea what he looked like. He could look like a pro wrestler, all beefy muscle and barrel chest; or he could look like, well, a barrel with legs. 

But if he was intuitive enough to have seen her predicament and come to her rescue at the exact moment she needed someone to, than he at least deserved her thanks and the promise of her company for the rest of the evening. Fortifying herself, she took another sip of the whiskey she held.

“You’re hired,” she said, but her voice came out as a whisper as the drink burned on the way down.

His reply was another swipe with his thumb, and now his voice came from somewhere above her head-- _ far _ above her head, in fact.

“And your payment for my services?”

Sansa should be shocked, really, at his audacity. She should have known a man would pull something like that. Glancing down again at his arm, she felt ridiculous trying to gauge his age by what she saw. If her instinct to offer a kiss was to be honored, she wanted to make sure she wasn’t offering it to a man old enough to be her father--or worse, her grandfather.

But no, the crisp hairs covering his skin were black, with no signs of gray. And the skin of his hand, though tanned and somewhat work-roughened, was not papery and frail. He couldn’t have been any older than forty.

Deciding to take her chances, she turned her head towards his hand so he could know her words were for him only.

“One kiss, sir.” And she waited for his reaction.

The man didn’t move--not his hand or his arm, or, it seemed, any muscle in his entire body. He stood frozen behind her, and she wondered if he was just pondering her offer and whether it was worth it. Sansa felt a moment of insecurity as a thought crossed her mind--could he find her unattractive? Is he wondering if a kiss would be worth his trouble? If her kiss would be  _ good enough? _

Suddenly incredibly unsure of herself, she took a longer pull on the whiskey and moved to stand, but the arm prevented her from doing so.

“I am no  _ sir _ , but I accept,” came the rumble at her ear, and though his voice was even and calm, she could also hear intrigue in his tone, as though he was very much going to look forward to his payment.

Sansa nodded, questioning the wisdom of her audacity, but ignoring the reservations she felt about it.

“It’s a date, then,” she murmured softly as she stood, his arm slipping away.

Then she turned, coming eye-to-chest with a mountain of a man. Her gaze slid upwards, over the light gray lapels of his suit, wide silver tie, long dark hair, and constricting collar just beneath the thick, dark brown beard.

Smooth lips set in a firm line, crooked nose, and eyes that matched his suit.

_ And scars _ \--good heavens, the man had horrendous facial scarring; a missing eyebrow, unnatural pull of skin at the corner of his eye, and mottled, bumpy scarring that extended from his cheek back towards his damaged ear and up onto his scalp.

Sansa’s eyes widened, and her lips parted in a soundless gasp. She felt her stomach clenching at how horrible they looked, how terribly painful. But at the same time she watched his guard come up, a curtain over his face as though he had expected it.

_ This must be why he kept me from turning _ , she thought,  _ and why those men turned tail and ran. _

The scars were  _ horrible! _ This man, who had come to her rescue and had accepted the offer of a single kiss as payment for protecting her from the hordes of hormonal college males at the wedding, had endured the unthinkably horrendous situation that had mangled his face and scalp, and she’d just done the opposite of putting him at ease.

The prick of tears startled her, and two spilled from her eyes. She lifted a hand to touch her cheek, feeling the trails they had left on her face.

His eyebrows--no, eye _ brow _ \--rose slightly, and she watched him pull a handkerchief out of his pants pocket. He wrapped it around one large finger and gently wiped away a tear as though it was the most natural thing in the world for him to do so. But then he seemed to catch himself, looking at the offending hand before abruptly handing the small bit of cloth to her. Sansa stared at him, feeling as unsteady at his action as he was, as she brought it up to wipe the other side.

She wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t drink any more of the whiskey he had brought her. Without having sat down to the reception dinner yet, her stomach was empty and she realized then that she was likely under the effects of the alcohol already.

She tried to give the handkerchief back, but he shook his head, then lifted his chin in her direction.

“You’ll be needing that again,” he rasped quietly, his gaze intense. “This is a wedding.” Then he looked away, affording her an unobstructed view of the full extent of the scars.

He was right--more tears escaped, Sansa’s empathic heart betraying her. As she wiped them, he was drawn by her movement and looked back down at her. The sneer he gave was likely meant to be cutting, but in her now buzzed state, Sansa felt silly, and found herself vowing silently to show this man a good time from now until he claimed his payment at the end of the evening.

So with the music playing and couples slowing as a softer song was played, she reached for his hand.

“Dance with me?”

Again, that sneer, but this time it disappeared faster as he pulled his hand away, to be replaced by disinterest and boredom. 

“This old dog doesn’t dance, girl.”

Sansa didn’t care. The whiskey wouldn’t let her. She put the tumbler of liquid courage down on the counter and fixed him with a stare.

“That’s too bad.” She waited until his eyes came back around and connected with her’s before lifting herself on tiptoes. After a beat, he lowered his face, turning so she could speak into his ear. “I was looking forward to that kiss.”

That was sort of a lie--she hadn’t been looking forward to it, not in the carnal sense. But the words had sounded good in that moment, and as she watched his expression turn from indifference to challenge, she felt her heart skip a beat. 

_ That got through to him _ , she decided, feeling a slight twinge of triumph when his hand reached out to her’s. With a bright smile, she led him onto the dance floor, spotting several of her would-be pursuers watching from the edges of the small crowd. Tugging at his hand, she guided it to her waist and looked up at her rescuer.

“Now’s your cue,” she gently reminded him, prodding him to action by tilting her head towards their audience. He looked in that direction, and she watched as his brow lowered. Had he been an actual dog, she was sure he would have snarled, so menacing was the look he sent their way.

Sansa couldn’t help it--she giggled, and reached up to rest her arms beside the man’s thick neck.

“So,” she said loud enough for him to hear, as they started to sway to the music, “Does my rescuer have a name?” 

The sound of her voice brought his attention back down to her, and he nodded.

“Sandor Clegane,” he offered.

“And how old are you, Old Dog Sandor Clegane?” 

That one eyebrow rose and he snorted, which sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Sansa smiled, but then waited for him to answer.

“Thirty-nine.”

“Ah. I had guessed forty.”

The eyebrow rose higher.

Slowly they danced as the song played, side to side, with several inches between his body and hers. All around them couples danced in varying degrees of intimacy--some held apart by an arm’s length, some pressed together so fiercely that one couldn’t see where the man ended and the woman began. 

Sansa liked how Sandor-- _ what a nice name _ \--held her, though she wondered if a bit of that was the alcohol in her system. Even so, his big hands felt natural where they rested on the curve of her waist, his fingers nearly touching in the center of her back. Looking down, she could see his thumbs rubbing her sides over the sequinned fabric of her strapless bodice.

Watching them turned quite interesting, seeing such dark skin gently caressing the delicate fabric and fine workmanship that had gone into making the dress. So interesting in fact that when she looked back up at him, he seemed different to her--as though the universe had tilted and cast everything in a new light, including him.

The scars were bad, obviously, but she could see something that she hadn’t seen before--how his eyes glowed silver as he looked at her now; the way his hair tumbled in soft waves just past the tops of his shoulders and tickled the tops of her hands. And the thickness of his facial hair as it completely obscured the skin underneath was really quite remarkable. She noticed the lines that couldn’t possibly be called  _ laugh lines _ , because didn’t one have to laugh in order for them to be called that? And he didn’t strike her as someone who laughed often.

Or ever.

The song reached a crescendo and it was only as it was fading away that Sansa noticed somewhere during their dancing they had inched closer and closer; that now her hands had crept around to the back of his collar, and that his hands were overlapping themselves just above the back curve of her hips.

And because they were already there, she allowed her fingers to feel his hair, realizing she was being bolder than she’d ever been but not quite caring.

Thanks,  _ whiskey _ .

But that hair--she tugged gently at its softness, feeling his eyes on her while she did it.

Lifting hers to his face, she smiled up at him, content knowing they looked like a happy couple to anyone who looked at them.

Well, except for his scowl.

“Smile, Sandor. You’re supposed to be enjoying your date.” She raised an eyebrow at him, mirroring his earlier expression. “Don’t I make you happy?” It was said as a jest, but he did that snort thing again.

“I’m dancing with the most beautiful woman here. Do  _ you _ think I’m happy?”

She watched his lips as he spoke, watching them move and form the words that did funny things to her stomach. When he asked his question she trained her eyes on his, her smile fading away.

“That’s, um…” Sansa blinked, swallowed. “That’s the nicest possible thing you could have said, so... Thank you.”

He merely looked away, looking for all intents and purposes as though he hadn’t  _ meant _ it as a compliment, even if she’d taken it as one.

“It’s true.”

“Yes, well, still.” Sansa stammered her way through an awkwardly positive silence, but then a thought provoked her to speak again.

“Is that why you rescued me?”

Snort. “No.”

_ Oh _ . Her shoulders slumped, disappointed in his answer.

“I’d have done it,” he added, tilting his head down to make sure she caught his eyes with hers, “even if you’d been the ugliest woman here.” 

He paused and surveyed the crowd above her head, and she saw the exact moment when he caught sight of her would-be pursuers. His expression became possessive, confusing her, as his eyes darkened and his nose flared.

“They thought you an easy target, and I set them straight.”

Sandor’s answer  _ did _ disappoint her, as she suddenly felt like she had no redeeming qualities according to this man, and that his rescue was borne out of a desire to help the helpless, regardless of whether he thought his charge was a pretty woman or not. The earlier fluttering of her heart disappeared like a smothered flame.

“Oh,” she merely said, but she kept dancing when he didn’t release her as one song ended and another started. Again they danced for a minute, Sansa feeling as though the evening couldn’t be over soon enough. Self-consciously she pulled her low ponytail over one shoulder and returned her hand to his shoulder, looking around as though she was inspecting the outfits of the other guests, when she was in fact attempting to look anywhere but at Sandor.

He must have seen this, because he raised a hand from her waist to tug at her chin, bringing her face up, to see his eyes connecting with hers in a pointed manner.

“That doesn’t mean I’m not happy, though.” 

And there it was--a smile. It was small, just the barest, barest, tiniest lifting of the corner of his mouth, nearly hidden under the thick mustache that blended seamlessly into his beard. It shocked her so much to see it that her lips fell open as her eyes lifted to his.

“Nor does it mean that you’re not the most beautiful woman here.” 

_ Flutter flutter _ . 

_ Good heavens _ , Sansa was running hot and cold with Sandor and she had the inexplicable urge to call Margaery and ask the notorious flirt what she was supposed to do.

She had flirted with plenty of guys before, had dated many of them, and even landed a few popular football players during her tenure at university. But this man was an entirely different breed of male than her previous dates.

He was a cane corso in a sea of boring black labs.

And she was realizing she had a growing fondness for cane corsos.

And while she had a slight buzz from the whiskey she’d drank earlier, she decided attempting to flirt with this man might be more than she was willing to handle. So they danced to a couple more slow songs, at one point-- _ finally _ , Sansa thought--pressing together so her arms wrapped around his waist and she rested her cheek against that silver tie. His hands adjusted, one of them wrapped around her waist and the other splayed over her bare shoulder.

When a faster song came on they pulled apart, Sansa suddenly unsure of how to proceed other than to look up at him with her brow furrowed, not understanding the pitter patter of her heart and the way her hand seemed reluctant to let go of his. So she led him to the tables off to the side and set about hunting down their name tags and moving one obscure cousin so that she could sit next to Sandor.

He watched it all with amusement coloring his eyes, and simply nodded in approval when she showed him their side by side name tags. Then they sat, and waited for dinner to be served.

She found that small talk with him was surprisingly easy. As it turned out, he was a co-worker of Robb’s, which was why she had never met him. 

Also,  _ no _ , he didn’t have any family.

_ Yes _ , he liked the prime rib.

_ No _ , she could  _ not _ have his lemon cake.

_ Fine _ , she could have the last bite.

When Sansa opened her mouth and waited, she watched his face for his reaction. The heated look in his eyes, that familiar flaring of his nostrils, and the way his other hand was fisted in the fabric tablecloth--said that  _ yes _ , he was attracted to her. The knowledge quickened her heart-- _ flutter flutter _ \--and made her bold.

His attraction for her was emphasized when he put the forkful of sweetness into her mouth and slowly withdrew it, not taking his eyes off her mouth as she slowly chewed, swallowed, and licked her lips. He watched her mouth move for so long that it was her smile that broke his stare, and his eyes connected with hers--silver pools of confusion saying he wondered what was happening just as much as she did.

Soon after that incident the speeches began, and when Sansa turned her back to Sandor to listen to whoever it was giving a speech at that particular moment, she leaned back into him, feeling the hum of relaxation when she dropped her hand to his knee.

Sandor remained stock still for a while, not moving through the first speech, nor even the second, despite them lasting more than ten minutes.

It wasn’t until Sansa began tracing light circles with her fingertips around his kneecap that he finally moved, bringing one hand down to splay his fingers out over the swell of her hip. She could feel the warmth of his hand through the layers of dress she wore, and wondered in that moment what his palms would feel like without the barrier of her dress--whether that rough skin would scratch or inflame. With her head so close to his she waited for more reaction from him, and was rewarded when his face dipped and she could hear his breath beside her ear, his inhale in her hair, his exhale against the skin of her shoulder. Slowly, gently, she turned her head in his direction and touched their heads together--her temple to his hair, brief enough that hardly anyone else could notice, but significant enough that the intimate touch shot flames clear down to the juncture of her thighs. She felt emboldened, and nearly lifted her shoulder so it would come into contact with his mouth.  _ Nearly _ \--she held back on that one.

When at last the evening was winding down and it was time for him to go, she offered to walk him out, reminding him in a quiet voice that he was due his payment for dutifully playing the part of willing date all evening. With her hand wrapped firmly inside his, she led him out to the parking lot.

His truck was parked in the back of the parking lot, with no other cars around it because he’d parked further from the venue than anyone else. Sansa laughed when they walked up to it.

“Now that we’re all the way out here, you’re going to have to be the gentleman and walk me back to the door.” 

She glanced around, the darkness in this part of the parking lot casting everything in shadow. Across the rows and rows of parked vehicles she could see the door to the ballroom open and close, people leaving, heading outside for a smoke, and going back in.

“I can do that,” he nodded, his voice incredibly deep. Sansa looked back at him and saw that he was waiting. 

He wasn’t going to make this easy on her, she realized. He wasn’t going to take--only waited to receive what Sansa was offering.

So without fanfare she stepped into him, finding that getting close enough to kiss only felt right with her body pressed into his, as she rose up on her tiptoes for the second time that night.

Sandor immediately dropped his head, hesitating a moment before their lips connected, letting their breaths mingle in the space between them as his eyes roamed over her lips, cheeks, and nose. Through the darkness emphasized by his hair she could see the gleam of his scars, and felt…. Nothing. No disgust, no discouragement, only  _ heat _ .

The whiskey in her system was long gone and she realized now that she  _ wanted _ to kiss him, she wanted him to want to kiss her.

With that thought in her mind she pressed her lips to his, waiting to see how this chaste kiss--borne of gratitude--felt. And it was nice--mustache tickling her lip, his breath mingling with her own, heads tilted in opposite directions to receive his reward.

Sansa let her hands drift to his chest, as she felt his come up to press against her waist, just the lightest touch whose purpose felt like helping her become aware of his presence. 

_ Flutter flutter _ . 

She chose not to question her body’s urge to slide her lips across his, and instead indulged in parting her lips over them, drawing the soft skin between hers and testing the sensation.

As though against his own free will, Sandor groaned but made no move to break the kiss. Rather, he slid a hand around to her lower back, applying a nearly imperceptible pressure.

It was all the urging she needed, and  _ his _ payment turned into  _ her _ own prize. Their arms tightened around each other, mouths pressed firm, and breath mixing with breath, making Sansa think of her earlier dance floor observation--where did her body end and his begin? She didn’t think anyone could tell, nor did she think  _ she  _ could tell. 

Sandor slid one hand to the upper curve of her bottom, pulling her against him as his other hand fisted in her ponytail, holding her head captive while his mouth opened over hers and his tongue pushed past the feeble barrier of her lips to claim hers. It was a sensual assault, the way his mouth made love to hers as she became aware of his growing arousal pressed to her belly. It took her a moment to realize the moans were coming from her own, as she wantonly pressed her body against his and slid both of her hands into the hair at the back of his head. 

It was all she could do to remain upright when her knees wanted to buckle and her arms yearned to drag him down to the ground on top of her.

Sandor seemed to sense this, and he tore his mouth from hers with such a feral growl that Sansa felt a rush of wetness between her thighs, a physical reaction that startled her nearly as much as it excited her.

“Sandor, I--” his mouth cut her off, his head tilting the opposite direction to plunder and thrust, “--I want you,” she ground out during a short reprieve, pushing her pelvis forward into his.

“Yes,” he rasped, reaching down to haul her up against him. Sansa’s legs wrapped around his waist and he carried her effortlessly while kissing her, around to the side of his truck. There he yanked open the rear door and tossed her back onto the big bench seat, making Sansa chuckle at his enthusiasm as he hauled his big body up and over hers. But she didn’t want to talk, she only wanted to  _ feel _ , and he was here--her rescuer, this big man, this  _ kind _ man, who had done nothing all evening but take care of her and see to her needs.

When Sandor unceremoniously dragged down the front of her dress to capture a nipple in his mouth, Sansa reacted by pulling his head against her chest. He used one hand to brace himself on the seat and the other to mould her breast with his hand, as though serving her up for himself.

It was sexy, maddeningly so, and she reached up to tear at his tie, somehow managing to loosen it enough to slip it out from his collar and toss it into the front seat. His suit jacket followed, and she finally allowed her hands to roam over him, over his body, feeling the bunched muscles of his shoulders and the sinewy lengths of his triceps. 

As he switched to her other breast he also hiked up her dress, finding the small pair of panties before making quick work of ridding her of them.

“Condom,” she gasped, and was glad to see he was ready. Wallet, package, tear, slide--and he was  _ there _ , entering her with one swift thrust that rent a strangled cry from her throat.

He paused, and when he lifted his face to hers there was such tenderness on it, such willingness to slow down and make sure she was alright that-- _ flutter flutter _ \--she felt the familiar quickening of her heart as she nodded and smiled up at him.

But before doing so he looked down at her--exposed breasts, heaving chest, kiss-moistened lips--and a shudder rippled through his body before he cursed.

“Fuck, you’re--” but he hissed through his teeth when she rocked her hips and extended her neck, her head going back and her eyes drifting shut at the sensation of being so thoroughly filled by him.

“Now, Sandor,” but what was meant as a demand sounded more like a plea from her mouth, nevertheless spurring him to action.

With his elbows beside her shoulders and her legs up around his waist he began moving at a quick pace, his hips slapping into hers as he scraped kisses up the column of her throat.

Faster and faster he moved, and Sansa clawed at the shirt at his back until she got her hands underneath it, shoving it further up so she could access the heated skin her palms had craved to touch.

His thick beard rasped against her sensitive skin and she found she didn’t care one bit that this would end with a massive amount of whisker burn on her body. She had never felt anything so delicious, so sinfully good as this man did right now, inside her.

She felt the pressure begin to build within her, but knew he would come long before she did, so she reached between them and pressed her fingers to her clit, letting the thrusts from his body manipulate her hand into her own flesh, until she was singing his name and clenching the front of her shirt in her fist.

Moments later he roared through his own climax, curling his body into hers, his forehead pressed against her shoulder, as he thrust into her once, twice, and his body came to a stop.

Sansa was breathing hard, as was he, when he slipped out of her and switched positions, so that she was laying spread out on top of him and his head was back against the opposite cushions, one arm thrown over his eyes and the other holding her to his chest.

Up and down she moved with his breaths, and she began to hear his big heart begin to calm through the wall of muscle. 

Not that she had thought about it before, but if anyone came upon them in this state they wouldn’t have known what was happening--the knee length skirt of her dress was now spread out, covering both of them from waist to knee, making them look, Sansa guessed, as though they were merely cuddling in the back of his truck.

Raising her head, she blushed as she looked down at him, both of them knowing the truth of it. And she was inordinately pleased to see he was finally smiling for true, his wrist leaving its place against his forehead to push back strands of her hair that had come loose from the ponytail she’d worn all evening.

“That was--” she started.

“--the best kiss ever,” he finished with a grin, shocking her into laughing out loud. 

He silenced her by pulling her up his body to gain access to her mouth, giving her a searing kiss that promised there was more where that came from, before he spoke again.

“Do you think they’ll know? If we go back inside?” 

He sounded unsure, so Sansa put both of her hands on either side of his face, feeling the slick, sweaty skin on his left side and the soft, uneven skin of his right. She kept her smile in place easily as she stroked back over and over, pushing his hair away from his face.

“Who says we’re going back inside?”

“It’s Robb’s wedding,” Sandor replied, but he didn’t sound as convinced as she thought he might have her believe. 

She lowered her head and snuggled into his neck, stroking down his beard with her thumb and feeling excessively pleased with herself. 

“My brother can handle himself, and my family doesn’t need my help.”

As soon as she spoke the first words she felt him tense beneath her.

“What the fuck--you’re Robb’s--ah,  _ seven bloody hells _ .” 

Sansa lifted her face to look at him again, her fingertips rubbing into the crisp hairs on his chest. She couldn’t help but smile at the shock and confusion on his face, shooting him a mischievous grin as she swirled a finger into the hair on his chest.

“Yes. You didn’t know?”

“Fuck no, I didn’t know.”

But the arousal had completely drained from Sandor’s face, just like Sansa’s smile quickly did from her’s, and his face became a mask of frustration and disbelief. She felt a twinge of worry--what they had just done was the most amazing sex she’d ever had, and she really would like to do it again. But at this point it didn’t look as though that was in the cards.

“Is that a problem?” she asked meekly, her voice quiet but her eyes hopeful that it wouldn’t be.

“That I just fucked my coworker’s sister in the back seat of my truck? No,” he responded sarcastically, “Not at all,  _ Sansa _ .” 

She bit her lip at that. He had never asked her name, but it seemed now that Sandor knew Robb better than she expected. Well enough, in fact, to figure out which sister it was who was sprawled on top of him, covering up the evidence of their lovemaking.

His face was so troubled that she merely nodded, feeling that it probably would have been best to introduce herself at some point earlier in the evening. With a hand on the bench beside his shoulder she pushed away from him, using a knee between his legs to rise up and back away from him as he pulled off the condom and tucked himself away. The condom went into a trash bag in the back seat, and once their clothing was completely adjusted and back to at least being in the proper place, they both climbed out of the truck.

“Well, thank you Sandor, for the lovely evening.” She knew she sounded sad but couldn’t help herself. She had thought… had thought…

It didn't matter. Apparently he thought Robb’s sister was off limits, and there was nothing she could do about it.

“Wait,” he growled, slamming the door of his truck shut. 

Sansa turned, feeling her heart clench at the sight of him--shirt partway undone and untucked, hair rumpled with no tie. He towered above her, such a visual representation of the Warrior that she had to clench her hands into fists against the folds of her skirt to keep from reaching out to touch him.

“Yes?”

His face was so serious, looking left and right, above her--anywhere but directly at her. She wished he’d just let her go back inside. This was hard enough, walking away.

“I didn’t mean--” He shoved a hand back through his hair, dragging it away from his scars before it fell back to cover them. He pulled his fingers down through the side of his beard, looking as though it was a gesture of uncertainty.

“It’s okay Sandor, really. I understand.” Then she turned to walk away, just as a hand landed on her bare arm.

“No, wait--” Sansa turned towards him but didn’t have a chance to speak before he was hauling her up against his hard chest and lowering his mouth to hers.

It was what her body had wanted, what it had ached for as she’d turned back towards the ballroom. So now that it was happening, she gave into every physical and emotional instinct, so happy to be back exactly where she wanted to be.

“Sandor,” she breathed against his mouth, twining her arms around his neck and crushing her breasts to his chest as he pulled her up by the backs of her thighs. Even as her mouth betrayed her, her body reached out for him.

“You don’t want this,” she reminded him as he kissed her cheek, her neck. It took barely any effort to wrap her legs around him and hold him in a vice grip.

“Fuck  _ yes _ , I do,” he growled, nipping at her naked shoulder with his teeth. “I want it, Sansa, I want  _ you _ .”

He turned and pushed her into the side of his truck, pinning her between the metal and his body as he ground his arousal into the juncture of her thighs.  _ Yesss! _ her body screamed, even as her hands gripped his hair and pulled his face back for a bruising kiss.

“Your place or mine,” he rasped, his words not even forming a question. 

Sansa’s unintelligible moan made him chuckle against her neck, and she shivered as she felt him lick her from shoulder to jaw.

“Mine,” he murmured, his voice deep and throaty as he answered his own question and she nodded in agreement, unable to form coherent words as his body did delicious things to hers. 

_ Flutter flutter _ .

Was she his? Were they going to his place? Did he claim ownership over her body with his skillful hands and his masterful mouth?

_ Yes, yes, yes! _

“Your’s,” she whimpered, and he captured her mouth in another deep, sensual kiss.


End file.
